


Of Missions and Margaritas

by Prince_of_Elsinore



Series: Two times something nearly happened [1]
Category: The New Adventures of Old Christine
Genre: (canon--mentioned), Brother-Sister Relationships, Brother/Sister Incest, Episode Related, F/M, Implied/Referenced Incest, Sibling Incest, Uncle/Niece Incest, non-established relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 01:25:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5987431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prince_of_Elsinore/pseuds/Prince_of_Elsinore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That one time Christine and Matthew stayed up all Sunday night to build a California mission model for Ritchie's school project, and ended up drinking margaritas and dancing inappropriately; or, why did Matthew really almost throw up in his therapist's office?</p><p>(Just a short, quick thing I had to write because Matthew/Christine fic is something that needs to exist.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Missions and Margaritas

Matthew’s internet wasn’t working.

As a young, unemployed male, this left him without his primary form of occupation. It also left him to the mercy of the cruel whims of telephone customer service representatives.

Yet stuck as he was with the phone glued to his hand and ear, he wasn’t completely without diversion. Living with Christine there was never a dull moment, for better or worse.

On Thursday she had been trying—and failing—to convince Ritchie that she could be just as fun a parent as Richard was. Then she’d pulled out the baby voice. The same one she’d used to coo about what a fun date she would be for “widdle Maffew’s pwom”—it still made his face red and his neck hot, after all these years.

This time it was something about the “fun police” hauling them off to “fun jail.”

“Will Dad be there?” Ritchie had asked excitedly.

Poor Christine couldn’t catch a break.

Watching her be silly like that with her kid—making a complete fool of herself in the process, of course—filled him with a sensation both warm and oddly uncomfortable, like being tickled under the chin or going over the crest of a hill too quickly in a car (Christine always did that, just to hear Matthew squeal—still made a game of it whenever they were on a hilly road. It had been a while though. Their corner of L.A. was too flat.)

Matthew couldn’t find a rational explanation for his reaction to his sister’s antics. Her Disney villain laugh and schemes of undermining her ex-husband’s “fun” parenting; the way she flit from one subject to another with the attention span of a five year-old on a sugar high (“Oh! Here’s my razor!”—as she pulled it out of the arts and crafts box she’d brought down for Ritchie’s school project); they should have exasperated him. He went through the motions, rolling his eyes and heaving sighs, but in truth there was always that little tug under his sternum, that warm little “whoop” of going over the bump. And he was totally addicted to it. Addicted to Christine’s crazy.

Well, it kept a weekend without internet interesting, at least.

On Sunday night, when he’d nearly giving up hope that he’d ever make it out of canned holding-music purgatory, he found her playing one of those fishing video games, assumedly made to try to bring an elderly demographic into the gaming public (Christine was probably in their target age range, he wanted to point out—but resisted the urge. He didn’t pride himself on his self-restraint for nothing). She looked entirely too pleased with herself—and, remarkably, like she was actually having fun. He teased her for thinking it would be fun for an eight-year-old, but the caustic comments hid just how fond he felt in that moment. Seeing her smile like that, all teeth and self-satisfaction. It was utterly ridiculous. Pathetically so. And he wished he could see her like that all the time. 

But he couldn’t help rubbing it in her face just a bit when a sleepy Ritchie returned home from the weekend at his dad’s and griped “you’re good at your job” (the job where Christine wasn’t “fun”). Matthew wasn’t sure exactly why he uttered yet another smug “ouch” at her kid’s jab, but he suspected it had something to do with the desperate, hurt way his sister looked at him. A desperate and hurt Christine was a Christine in need of comfort, and who was there to provide it save for him?

He would never say he was pleased or excited when she came knocking on his door that night, brandishing a construction paper and popsicle stick tee-pee that was supposed to be a California mission and begging for his help in redoing her son’s homework. Because frankly, it was ridiculous, and it was irresponsible. It was a fourth-grade school project, for God’s sake.

Yet he put up no resistance to being press-ganged into the mission project. What would his life be without his sister’s harried, last-minute requests anyway? Missions with Christine—of every sort, not just the California kind—were the closest his life got to adventure.

And what would adventures with Christine be without the over-sharing: apparently, Christine hadn’t been ready for Alan Rice on prom night. Apparently, he worked her boobs like he was making a pizza crust. Apparently, that wasn’t even the whole story.

Of course, he supposed he should know better than to bring up sexual topics—it was an invitation for trouble. (“Oo, missionary position. Does that do anything for us?”—“Never did anything for me.”—“Really. Knock it off.”)

He knew. But he did it anyway. He couldn’t help it.

He made her laugh with “Hey, I don’t remember the Alamo!”—that ugly, teeth-baring, nose-wrinkling, donkey bray of a laugh that unfortunately ran in the family. He loved it when she laughed like that. “Whoop” went his gut—warm, giddy. He was afraid there was some barely-restrained core of nausea or hysteria somewhere back there between his kidneys, just waiting for its moment to break through his carefully maintained lackadaisical façade. He wished he made her laugh more often. But then it was “focus focus! This is Ritchie’s education,” and they were back to pondering the mess of craft supplies spread out on the kitchen table.

They didn’t remain pondering for long; not once guacamole had been brought up. God bless how easily distracted Christine was at the mere mention of that globby green goodness. That was one of the perks of hanging out with his sister: their shared addiction to junk food and penchant for late-night munchies.

After the chips and dip came the margaritas.

And as night follows the day, more over-sharing followed the alcohol: apparently, Christine had photos of all the ways Alan ploughed-her-like-an-Iowa-cornfield Rice had violated her on prom night. Matthew didn’t want to think about it.

But he did. Because he couldn’t help it.

Two margaritas and way too much sharing later (he had never hoped to hear about just how well endowed Uncle John was, but so much for that) he had almost forgotten he was still in customer service hell when they heard the Indian-accented voice on the phone speaker.

Matthew fumbled towards it, senses already fuzzied with tequila. He was a lightweight and he knew it, but it was impossible to pace himself with Christine pouring the drinks.

Christine snatched up the phone like a hotcake and pressed it into his hands—and then they heard the dial tone.

Matthew stared at her.

“I might have pushed the wrong button…” Christine’s face was almost hopeful. Hopeful for forgiveness for most definitely pushing the wrong fucking button.

“I’m gonna need another margarita,” said Matthew through gritted teeth. He didn’t add the “if I’m going to keep from punching you in the mouth” that he said inside his head.

Three margaritas and a couple swigs of tequila straight from the bottle later and they were dancing in the living room.

Fuck the internet. Who needed bloggers and Reddit forums when you could dance and get drunk with your crazy sister on a Sunday night?

They cranked the music up. Salsa fusion—for California mission inspiration, obviously. It was a good thing Ritchie was a heavy sleeper once he had his “Giggy” and womb sounds going.

Matthew felt floaty, loose. It had been a while since he’d had so much to drink. It had also been a while since he’d torn up a dance floor. God, why didn’t he dance more often? Christine was right. It was so much _fun_. He fucking loved to dance!

They gyrated to the beat, margaritas in hand. Christine somehow managed to make it work, even in her shapeless nightgown. Or maybe Matthew was just that drunk.

“Yeah, move those hips, mama!” he heard himself say, and was thankfully not sober enough to be immediately mortified.

Christine began backing it up towards him, arms outstretched in stiff parody of a Shakira music video. Matthew turned to her, swinging his hips like the Bee Gees, and suddenly she had grooved her way practically into his arms. She glanced over her shoulder and they exchanged grins.

Matthew’s free hand hovered at her waist. It wasn’t until he felt the back of Christine’s thighs brush just barely against his (it wasn’t her butt against his crotch, he refused to think it was her butt against his crotch) that he realized what they were doing. How had just dancing turned into grinding like a couple of gross middle schoolers? (He blamed the tequila.)

Christine seemed to realize it too, looking at him in surprise as she turned in his arms.

“Woooah there, tiger!” She laughed, swayed dangerously. She bit the tip of her tongue as she grinned up at him.

God, that drove him crazy. And he was drunk enough to admit it—to himself, at least—rather than shriveling up like a prune and reinstating a healthy arms-length barrier around his person. That’s what sober Matthew would do. Too bad sober Matthew was nowhere to be seen.

He giggled back and bit his lip, like it was all part of a joke, like they were both in on it and totally in control of the situation.

They weren’t touching anymore, but Christine didn’t step away. Instead they continued to move to the beat, thrusting pelvises and popping hips like it was a dance-off with no personal space permitted.

Christine raised her eyebrows at him in a mock challenge, and placed her margarita-less hand on his shoulder.

Just a shoulder touch. Totally respectable. Like ballroom dancing.

But four-going-on-five margaritas had made his sister sloppy. Her hand slipped down his arm as she took another sip.

Totally normal. Everything under control.

Maybe he could regain the sense of ballroom propriety if he just—put his hand there… on her ribs, really, not even her waist, and definitely not her hip. With their margarita hands raised to the side, it almost resembled a real Viennese Waltz hold.

If you looked at it through tequila-tinted glasses.

Her hair was in front of his face. He didn’t smell it on purpose—he _didn’t_ —but he just couldn’t help catching the whiff of vanilla from her shampoo, or whatever it was Christine wore.

Oh God, vanilla. Matthew had always been a sucker for baking scents. The way to a man’s heart and all that.

He felt very warm. Christine’s hand rubbing absently up and down his bicep was scorching. Tickling. The music was distant, irrelevant in his bubble of soft-focus reality.

He hooked his other arm underneath his sister’s and managed to bring his glass to his lips over her shoulder for another gulp. He was suddenly very, very drunk.

And they were really standing much, much too close.

He could feel her breasts against his chest. She wasn’t wearing a bra under the thin nightgown. It ought to disturb him, gross him out. But it didn’t. It just tugged a little on that string behind his sternum.

Their legs were rubbing against each other on nearly every beat. Matthew vaguely wondered if Christine was as aware of all this as he was.

And then—oh God, no mistaking it. Her hip was pressed up against him. _There_.

 _Ah_.

This wasn’t normal anymore.

It was like being caught inside the moment just at the top of the hill, just as the stomach flips—and never coming down. Thrilled. On edge. Terrified. He wanted to press up against her, to hold her close, bury his nose in that goddamn delicious smelling hair—

And then she was gone.

A belated heat wave surged through him from the ears down. His stomach dropped, sickening, then a flash of tingling, shivering cold. He shuddered.

“—thew, Jesus Christ!” his sister was whining. His heart skipped a beat. Was she going to say something about what had just happened?

“It’s five o’clock! Oh my God, we have to finish the freakin’ mission!”

Momentarily numb with relief (and tequila), it took Matthew a moment to find his voice. “O-oh yeah, right.”

He followed Christine back to the kitchen table on unsteady feet.

Maybe nothing had happened. Was that possible? Maybe it had been completely by accident. Maybe Christine hadn’t even noticed. Maybe she hadn’t meant any of it maybe he was reading way too much into one stupid dance and God he was sick wasn’t he and he really, really had had too much to drink.

By the time Richard showed up the next morning, gorgeous, state-of-the-art mission diorama in tow, Matthew had sobered up. He almost wished he hadn’t, though. Why couldn’t he have drunken enough to black out last night?

“So now I’ve spent 72 hours on hold and seven hours building this crappy mission,” he stated blankly, staring at Richard’s beautiful model. “This is the worst weekend since I had to scratch under grandma’s cast.”

He made a beeline for his room and his bed. He didn’t mention the worst part of all: the awkwardly sexy dance times with his sister that would leave him with enough doubts about his mental stability to keep him in a state of neurosis for the next several months.


End file.
